


Scourge

by rhymeswithmonth



Category: Teen Wolf (TV), Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Post-Apocalypse, Alternate Universe - Zombies, Character Death, Crossover, Gen, Gore, Hunter Stiles Stilinski, M/M, Notzombie!Derek, Notzombie!Pack, Violence, Zombie Hunters, Zombies that aren't zombies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-13
Updated: 2013-02-13
Packaged: 2017-11-29 03:29:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/682222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rhymeswithmonth/pseuds/rhymeswithmonth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The kindest thing," Stiles says thickly around the snot and tears congealing on his face, "Is to end it quickly, before the memories of your love is tarnished." he raises the pistol, hands shaking so badly that he nearly drops it. "One shot to the head and you can purge the scourge." he clicks the safety off, "Your sacred duty as survivors."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scourge

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this the night after seeing Warm Bodies in theatres. It draws heavily on inspiration from that as well as The Walking Dead (borrowed a couple characters too) and with a tiny bit of How to Train Your Dragon thrown in there :)
> 
> Another unfinished fic is about the last thing I need right now as we enter midterms.
> 
> Also, my name for Stiles in this is JOACHIM which is pronounced yaw-AH-kheem. I don't mind the Genim option, but I felt like coming up with my own.

The rotter in the pen is the worst one that Stiles has ever seen. Like every body that is brought in for the examinations, it's lower jaw and arms are missing, hacked away with the butchers' crude tools. Decay has ravaged the body to the point where it is unrecognizable as male or female, the tattered rags that the wranglers have left on for the sake of decency offer no clue either. It has no eyes or nose and great slices of skin are absent, peeled away in surgically straight lines up and down its torso.

Stiles carefully lines up the sight and narrowed his eyes to peer down the gun barrel. The rotter is moving across the yard in the standard lurching gait, but it's legs look about ready to fall to pieces so it isn't going anywhere fast. At first people generally have difficulty with the zig-zag motion, but once you spend a little time watching it's easy enough to discern a pattern. Then it's just a matter of predicting the next sway-dip-bob, line up the rifle and fire away.

The bullet hits the rotter in the chest; right above the spot where it's unbeating heart was set, knocking it back several feet. Stiles curses and re-loads hurriedly, briefly fumbling the cartridge before clicking the muzzle back and aiming again.

"Head in the game Stilinski!" Finstock's voice calls from behind him, causing Stiles to flinch, finger fluttering over the trigger. He grits his teeth and concentrates, doing his best to ignore the low buzz of conversation. He shifts against the warm shingles and breathes in, sights, and pulls the trigger.

This time, the rotter's brains are sent flying behind it to splatter on the cement ground of the yard. Scott whoops supportively and Stiles peels himself off the roof and straightens, back popping audibly when he stretches. "Headshot!" Scott crows when he reaches where his friend is seated cross-legged on top of a massive generator, thrusting out a fist to bump. Stiles obliged half-heartedly and slumps down to lean against the other boy's legs.

"Still shabby Stilinski!" Finstock says from his lawn chair in the shade by the stairs, "Those fuckers aren't going to wait for you to reload out there kid, let me tell you!"

"Yeah coach." Stiles sighs heavily and goes to work disassembling his gun. The familiar movements always soothes him, calms the heady rush of adrenalin that shooting never fails to prompt. At the ledge Jackson is assuming sniping posture, throwing a smirk over his shoulder.

"Pay attention losers, this is what real shooting looks like!"

"You did great." Scott says quietly, leg swinging side-to-side to bump rhythmically against Stiles' shoulder. "Better than last time for sure. They'll be letting you out in no time."

"Yeah, right." Stiles snorts, shoving at his friend's ankle to get him to stop with the kicking, "Me on patrol. The way it's looking I'll never even get passed the inner wall, much less actually make it outside.

"Nah, it'll happen, I know it will. We've just got to keep practicing. It's what we're _destined_ for."

Stiles shoots him a look, determined to communicate _I'm unimpressed because I'm too immature for that bullshit_ through his eyes like he's seen Jackson do a million and one times, but Scott has this goofy grin on his face that makes him look twelve again and Stiles need could stay mad at preteen Scott. There'd been too many pimples and frizzy hair, and that crooked smile? It was the same one that had split his face the day Stiles' dad had gravely set their first guns in their hands, nearly a decade ago.

Three shots ring out in rapid succession; Jackson rarely failed to dispatch his targets immediately, but he always did tend to overdo things. Stiles sighs and lets his head fall against Scott's thigh. And who really knew anyway? Maybe it is what they are destined for. Maybe they will end up liberating the city, purging the streets of the zombie scourge with their ingenious battle strategies. He runs his fingers lightly over the familiar shape of his rifle as the sun sets the sky on fire.

 

 

 

Stiles is expressly forbidden to be in the sector of the compound that he is currently in. Like, the Governor himself had directly said so, specifically pertaining to him. There isn't quite a "No Stiles Allowed on the Premises" sign on the hulking metal door that separates the inner labs from the rest of the building, but the idea has probably been flung around at council meetings.

It's cool though, he's spent an alarming percentage of his life in places he's not allowed to be. The taverns, the training pit, the rotter pens, sewers, file rooms, armoury and the council chamber are just a few on the extensive list. He's stayed away from the labs up until now because, hello, bunch of science guys trying to reconnect the wires of a dead society? Yawner. Today however, he was a man on a mission, a mission that necessitated a venture into boring waters.

Just barely an hour ago the list of new recruits had been posted to the notice board in the pit. Miracle among miracles, Stiles' name is there. Just as a mule, but hauling ammunition and med supplies outside the walls while people like Jackson get all the glory is still a thousand times better than being stuck inside. Yup, Stiles is finally going to get his turn on patrol, and he wants his dad to be the first to hear the news, but he hadn't been in his office. Then Stiles had remembered that his dad had said something that morning about a briefing in the tech-sector, and now here he is, poking his nose in room after unspectacular room on the hunt for one General Jonathan Stilinski.

For all the council claims their researchers are making headway on reestablishing a form of localized Internet, the workspace is disappointingly lacking in, well, workers. There are rooms full of towering coils, jungles of wires and floor-length control panels, but each station is deserted, the cold halls echoing with nothing save for Stiles' footsteps.

It's eerie, the entire inner compound is hooked up to the most reliable of the city's generators, but the old gal is getting on in years and the lights flicker, some stretches of tunnel pitch-black. Stiles tugs his flannel shirt closed and mentally tries to map out the route he took to get here, and realizes with a lurch that he's lost. Hopefully he'll bump into security or something and be escorted out.

But apparently the council isn't interested in keeping their top-secret findings top-secret because he doesn't run into a single guard. He wanders for another fifteen minutes, hoping that he'll eventually just wind up at an exit, steadily growing more and more freaked out. It seems like he is, in fact, going deeper into the labyrinth, of the biohazard signs that begin to pop up with alarming frequency are anything to go by. And the padlocked grates that he has to pick the locks of. Okay so maybe he's equally as curious as he is freaked out. It's a curse that he has to live with.

He's about to turn around and try retracing his steps when he hears the first sound that isn't his own breathing or his converse on the cement floor. It's muffled and he nearly chalks it up to his notoriously over-active imagination when he hears it again. It sounds vaguely like someone yelling from behind the door to his left. It has one of those biohazard signs smack dab in the centre of its steel surface, but of there's a person inside it must be safe, and also his only shot at getting out of hear before he starves to death. He pushes picks the deadbolt with a practiced hand, slips his handy dandy paper-clip into the back pocket of his jeans and pushes through.

The room he steps into is the cleanest space he's ever set foot in. The floor is actual floor, not just cement or packed dirt. It along with the ceiling and walls are white the likes of which he's seen to equivalent, and the lights bounce off of it all and into his eyes blindingly. Disappointingly the room is empty of people. Human people that is. There is a body though, and it's hanging from the ceiling.

It's a rotter thank god, and it's what is making the noise. This one was clearly once a female, breasts hanging heavy and obvious, shockingly well preserved save for the alterations obviously preformed by one of the city's butchers. It's hair has recently been buzzed to the scalp, leaving nothing to obscure the mess of its face, de-jawed of course, but it's tongue is still there, lolling out from the open cavity and twitching, seizing as a low moan escapes the suspended body.

Rotters don't bleed, that's the whole point. Their hearts ceased to beat when the infection killed them so there's nothing pumping blood through their veins. But that means that any damage done to the bodies doesn't scab over; the jagged flesh around the tongue shines damply. Stiles' eyes skirt the wound, traveling down the sickly pale skin of its chest where it's torso is split in half, spilling entrails into a silver bucket set on a table below. It's legs are missing entirely, nowhere in sight, the ribcage peeks white through blackish shreds of muscle. Some of its organs are spread out on the long table, beside a tray of medical instruments. Stiles can recognize a few, stomach, lungs, heart, and one bloated mass that is less familiar, as large as the stomach. He inches closer, disgust warring with his ever-present need to know things.

The organ has been partially dissected, a strange, clear liquid pooling in the bottom of the pan. His eyes pick through the muted purples and reds, baffled at what they see until he picks up on a vaguely familiar shape in the middle.

It's surprising that he manages not to puke everywhere. As it is he rears back and staggers back, trips himself and falls on his ass. He would normally feel stupid about his lack of coordination but he's too busy dry heaving between his knees.

It's a fetus. A tiny, barley recognizable, alien of a thing, but it's unmistakable. It should be impossible but it's right there on the table not five feet away. A zombie fetus.

Another groan comes from the body and Stiles looks up into its- no, /her/ glowing red eyes. "Fuck," he chokes, clutching at his chest as if reassuring himself that his own heart is still beating, "What the fuck, what the /fucking/ fuck." The red eyes stare right back at him, blink once, twice. She lets out a louder noise, closed to a grating shriek than anything.

Zombies don't bleed, zombies don't think, zombies don't talk, and zombies don't reproduce. These facts are basically the basis of their training; they were reanimated corpses that must be taken out at all cost. This, this was unprecedented.

This isn't right, Stiles' brain insists, on so many levels. He doesn't even try to think about the logistics of a corpse being pregnant, it's too overwhelming, a paradigm shift so monumentous in its implications that he doesn't dare analyze it. But beyond the abnormality, what the hell was the thin doing here, deep in the bowls of the research pavilion?

The rotters that they use in shooting drills are the ones who wander into the no-mans land between the walls. The outer wall is, in fact, more of a fence, miles of lightly rusted chain-link stretching twelve feet into the air topped with barbed wire. Some of the stronger zombies though, and the hungriest manage to get through, be it by scaling the fence and braving the wire or tearing an opening in the chain-link itself. Squads of maintenance workers walk the fifty-foot wide corridor between the fence and the wall regularly to repair any breaks and weak-spots, but the occasional rotter gets through.

If a rotter can get through once then there is a good chance that it'll be able to do it again so the wanderers are captured and transported into the city. They are de-jawed and de-clawed immediately, and then handed over to the trainers to use as target practice for the recruits. It's a good system, keeps the dead-zone (pun very much intended) clear, and contributes to the healthy education of trigger-happy teenagers.

It's a system built on one simple policy, you neutralize the threat at all costs. Take it's teeth and it can't bite, it's hands so it can't grab you, hold you down, and rip you apart. Hobble it so it can't chase you. Aside from the necessary live-captures, kill it as soon as you can.

This...this thing on the table, it isn't how they do things. It's been drilled into him for as long as he can remember- we kill zombies. If we don't kill them, they kill you and everyone you love. You hesitate for one second and you've doomed us all. You do not hang zombies from ceilings and /leave/ them there, swaying slightly from its pathetic struggles.

He has the scalpel in his hand without even meaning to pick it up. Mind calm and focused for once in him life he looks up into the crimson eyes of the zombie. _"We kill them," his mother says, lips fluttering like butterflies against his forehead, "But we wish we didn't have to. It is what makes us different, my little Joachim, it is why we are human and they are not. We feel remorse over death, we must never kill with joy, and never stain your soul with a dirty kill."_

He shoves the scalpel deep into the eye socket, twisting it through wet grey matter until his knuckles press against one cold cheek, and it hits the back of the skull. The zombie let's out one short, strangled scream before falling completely silent. Still he twists, rotating the knife in order to turn the brain, as well as the eyeball into jelly-like shreds.

He's breathing heavy, nearly hyperventilating when he steps away. He drops the filthy scalpel to the table with a clatter and looks around wildly for something to wipe the scraps of brain that are stuck to his hand on. There's nothing in the room so he uses the cuffs of his jeans to dab the remnants away, counting on going straight home to shower and change.

The enormity of what he's just done hits him as he's scrubbing his wrist, causing his to sag sideways onto the floor. He thought that he was toeing the line when it had just been the research sector that he was breaking into, this was a whole new level of disorderly behaviour. This is crossing the line, walking so far that he gets lost in the woods, has to set up camp there which eventually expands into a whole permanent Swiss Family Robinson deal. It's none of his damn business why the communications nerds were dissecting rotters, he's just a dumb kid who barely made the draft.

Of course it is now, while quietly freaking out over the _gigantic mistake_ he's just made, that he finally hears voices. They're faint, and in a large, empty building like this that means that they're still far away. Which is good because it takes him a full minute to work through his panic and decide that he most definitely should get the hell out of here before he's caught and kicked off the squad before he even gets to do anything.

He scrambles up, swiping the scalpel as an afterthought when his inbred paranoia screams 'fingerprints' and 'incriminating evidence'. As quickly and quietly as he can he hurries out, closing the door and runs in the opposite direction from the approaching voices. Unfortunately that direction is a straight away of a hallway, white and empty and devoid of hiding places. Except for the garbage can sitting outside one of the doors. Stiles allows himself one short moment to make sure that the thing isn't full of toxic waste or zombie bits before folding himself inside.

It reeks, but just normal garbage reek. The tiny space immediately becomes overheated, it's claustrophobic and hard to breathe. He pulls the hem of his shirt up to cover his nose and mouth. Footsteps echo closer, the murmur of conversation sharpening and growing louder. Stiles bit down hard on his cheek to keep his breathing silent.

"...there is a chance though, you know how riled up they get when one of the seconds are taken." One of the voices says. The people are walking slowly by the sound of it, and not bothering to keep their voices low.

"It's nothing we can't handle." the second voice replies, and Stiles stiffens with recognition. It's a voice he hears regularly over weekly video briefings from the higher ups. He doesn't know General Kate Argent well, but she's famous among the recruits for her lightning fast climb through the ranks. She is the youngest of the generals by far, and also the most terrifying. "Increase patrols to half-hourly rounds, tell them that it's the fair weather or something. No need to cause alarm."

"If you're sure." the first voice sounds hesitant. It's a man, but no one Stiles is familiar with. "Do you think they will though? Try to get her back?"

"That isn't your concern Mamet, leave dealing with the rotters to me and my men and focus on your little project. The Gov wants the numbers by..." and they fade into the distance as the pair finally wanders off.

He waits another five minutes to be sure that the coast is really clear before heaving himself out of the bin. His shoes are coated in grime now so he yanks them off and runs barefoot down the hall. With horror at his heels he easily finds the way.

 

 

 

When his dad gets home at quarter to one in the morning, Stiles is curled up on the foyer floor, idly spinning his old crosse between his fingers. He'd rather have his rifle, but as mules like him only have a level three clearance, he's not allowed to bring or keep weapons into civilian areas. He'd been hoping that when his crime had been discovered, and troops were sent to apprehend him, he'd at least go down fighting like the soldier he sort of almost was.

"What the- Stiles, you're still up?"

General Jonathan Stilinski stares down at his son as if he doesn't quite understand why the world gave him such a bizarre offspring, but he's done questioning it. It's a look that Stiles gets a lot, and it's quite reasonable in this case, he supposes. "Hey dad," he croaks, "Just...you know, patchin' up the ol' stickeroo." he waves said object in the air; knocking into the floor lap and making it wobble dangerously. His dad jumps to steady it, eying Stiles wearily.

"Makes sense..." the general says, shrugging out of his jacket and throwing it over the armchair. Stiles glares at him pointedly until he rolls his eyes and transfers it to the coat rack, "It's not as if you haven't played in years or anything..."

"Hey it's not my fault I've had no time!" Stiles squawks and pushes to his feet to follow his dad into the kitchen, "It's been training, training, training, but that doesn't mean that I don't still think fondly of the days when I could actually kick back and toss around the ol' orb."

The General shakes his head and pulls the ice-box open to scan its contents. Usually there'd be a covered plate of whatever Stiles had made himself for dinner, but tonight he really just hadn't felt like eating. He sees the confusion in the line of his dad's shoulders when all the box offers is a side of raw venison and an assortment of vegetables. "I'll make you a salad if you want." Stiles offers guiltily.

"I can do it myself." his dad replies, "I'm not totally incompetent you know, I was a bachelor once."

"Yeah," Stiles huffs skeptically, "But that was when microwaves and proper ovens still existed."

He leans against the counter while dad throws together the unhealthiest salad in the history of ever. He puts salty croutons and strips of smoked chicken and drenches the entire thing in thick, sugary vinegar. Stiles lets it slide this time only because he thinks maybe the forbidden calories will make him more excepting of the news Stiles has to break.

Hey _daddyo, so you know how you're like, one of the commanding officers of a militia dedicated to the eradication of the zombie hoard that is currently dominating the planet? You know the one. And you know how you've kinda been training me to follow in your footstep since I was six? Well, I think I don't want to do that anymore. No, no particular reason, just that I'm suddenly having doubts about everything we've ever been told ever. Yes I know they killed mom. Yes I realize that you'll be super disappointed for the rest of your life._ that's it, that's all he has to say. Fuck.

He gets as far as "Hey dad, there's uh...something I've got to um..."

"Let me stop you there buddy." the general interrupts, brandishing a speared piece of lettuce at him, "I'm glad you waited up, because I just want to say how very proud I am. Chief had the list emailed to me as soon as it was finalized. Looked for you in the canteen, thought you'd be celebrating with your teammates."

"Yea I uhm...didn't? I mean I was tired, just wanted to get home."

"Well I've booked tomorrow off, so we can do something. Maybe go down to the fruit fields, pack a lunch. You can bring Scott too, and that girl you're always going on about."

"Dad, no way is Lydia going to want to go on a picnic with two mules and an old General!"

"Hey I resent that. By I'll let the sass slide because it's a big day...night. And don't use that term, carriers are so much more than it implies. You're job is vital to the mission just as much as the scouts, the medics and the troops. Don't let anybody tell you otherwise. And before you know it you'll be getting promoted, maybe someday you'll have my job!"

Shit, he has this glazed, dreamy look as if Stiles becoming a general would be better than those bacon-wrapped steaks that he's so enamoured with, no matter how often Stiles lectures him about the value of a heart-healthy diet. "Uh yeah, that would be swell wouldn't it."

The general absolutely beams, "I'm so happy that you think so. I've gotta admit, I've had thoughts about you being my lieutenant, Marvin will be ready for his own division in a few years. Gives you time to make a name for yourself."

He goes back to chomping enthusiastically on a piece of chicken, a satisfied expression fixed firmly on his face. Stiles moans internally and presses his face against the cold tile.

 

 

 

"So anyway, as I was saying, what would you do if that happened"

"...hypothetically?" Scott asks skeptically, shrugging his duffle higher up his shoulders.

"Of course hypothetically! What? Do you really think that that actually happened? Are you crazy?" Stiles' voice went embarrassingly high, and he cleared his throat noisily and tried to calm himself.

"Woah calm down. The scenario is just...bizarrely specific. I mean, a rotter with a baby? That's just..." he trails off, face screwed up in disgust.

"Sssh dude not so loud!" They were lagging a ways behind the rest of their team, but Stiles still shoot a furtive glance ahead to make sure none of them were looking back at them. "Er because...if they hear you they'll think we're some kind of weirdos!"

Scott just gives him a look, and gestures in a wide motion that very clearly say _and that would be different how...?._ "Okay, fine, I get your point. Jeez." Stiles grumbles, "Then they'll think we're insane. Just-" he grabs his friend by the sleeve and holds so that they drop back even further. "what would be the best course of action in this very hypothetical situation?"

"Well..." Scott hums, kicking a rusted hunk of metal that looks like it had belonged in a car engine once upon a time, "I guess...I'd report it to one of the lieutenants? Let them handle it."

"Really? You wouldn't be curious and, I don't know, keep it to yourself? You'd get the uppers in on it for real?"

"Duh!" Scott boggles at him, "Dude why the hell not? What's there to gain in keeping it a secret?"

"I dunno, maybe they'd just cover it up yaknow? Be all governmenty and hush hush and threaten me to shut me up. The info would never reach the public."

Scott frowns, "Should it?" Stiles gawks incredulously, "Don't _look_ at me like that! The council wouldn't withhold something that we need to know would they? I mean, it's not like they'd keep something that big a secret right?"

Stiles falls silent for a sliver too long and Scott halts in his tracks and says intensely, " _Right Stiles_?"

He opens his mouth to spout some bullshit answer about how of _course_ they wouldn't, and power to the city, the council is our salvation, long live the governor, etcetera, etcetera, when a voice shouts at them, "Hurry it up mules or you're gonna be walker chow!"

"Yes Sir Lieutenant Walsh Sir!" Scott and Stiles chime together, and the dark haired man spun and motioned at the rest of the group, turning the corner of a building and out of sight. Stiles didn't know the man as well as he knew his General, who was a friend of his father's. But Lieutenant Walsh and General Grimes we're good soldiers, having lived for years outside any city, fighting zombies off daily on their journey from the decimated east-coast. The term 'walkers' was an old one, having faded into disuse about a decade ago, but the easterners still use it over the more modern 'rotters'.

"Whelp, we'd better catch up!" Stiles exclaims, moving to jog after the group, but Scott seizes the hood of his jacket and holds him back.

" _Stiles_."

"Whaaat Scotty?"

"Stiles, your story...is it _really_ a hypothetical one?"

Stiles clenches his teeth and does his best to maintain eye contact with his friend. Scott has that neat little crease between his dark brows that appears whenever he's worried or confused, like he obviously is now. Sweat from the twenty minutes of hiking with forty pounds of gear on their backs is sticking strands of hair to his forehead. His mouth hangs half open, crooked as all get out, and Stiles has the sudden thought that he looks constipated, and is struck with the inane urge to laugh.

The zombie grabs Scott just as the screaming start. All at once he's jerked backward, and he's yelling in terror. There's one on Stiles too, bony hands tearing at the bulk of his duffle, shredding fabric and sending valuable supplies clattering to the pavement.

Stiles throws himself to the ground, landing hard on his elbows. The rotter continues to decimate the bag, twisting claws not able to rip through the protective vest underneath. Scott is yelling somewhere close by, and further away the sharp pop-pop of gunfire sounds. There's more yelling from far away, the rest of them are fighting rotters too then, they must have walked into the middle of a pack.

He manages to get hold of the pistol strapped to his thigh, and twists, trying to get a clear shot at its head. He can smell the rank breath against his face, stinking of acids and old meat. Blindly he pulls the trigger and the thing screeches, releasing him for long enough to wriggle across the ground and flip onto his back. He'd only managed to hit the shoulder, but he can actually see now so he fires again. And again. He fires the entire round into the thing with a yell, punching gaping, bloodless holes in the torso, blowing half of it's neck away before finally putting a bullet directly between it's rolling mustard-coloured eyes.

"Scott!" he cries, hurrying to reload. His scuffle with the rotter had sent him crashing against a building and through the boarded up window. "Oh man oh man oh shit oh hell!" Stiles gasps, scrambling through the splintered opening into the dim basement of the building, "Scott, where are you? Fucking hell! Scott!"

"Here!" came a weak reply, and Stiles dragged in a shuddering breath.

"Did you kill it?" he asks, scanning the shadows, gun held tight in both hands. Suddenly a silhouette shifts and stands, and he swings the pistol to aim at its head.

"He-y it's just me!" Scott croaks, putting his hands up like they're in a bad western. "It's dead, I got it."

"Holy shit man!" Stiles lowers the weapon and moves closer, "That was _messed_ up! I didn't even hear the fuckers until they were on us. Shit- we've got to help the others I think there's a whole pack-" he is already turning, grabbing his knife off his belt and making sure his guns ready for another go. "Come on bro look lively!"

"I-Stiles slow down I need-" Stiles paused, hands braced on the window frame, ready to haul himself back into the street. He squints back at Scott, who hasn't moved from the spot at the back of the room.

"Hey, you okay? Are you hurt?" Suddenly Stiles is freaking out, thinking of broken limbs and tetanus filled scratches.

"Y-yeah I just...if I can just...need a b-breather." but then he doubles over and there was the sound of vomit hitting cement.

"Woah woah woah!" Stiles' stomach roils in sympathy; he's never been great around throwing up people. Poor guy, the stress must be wrecking havoc on his body already, or else it was- "Scott," he repeats, throat bone dry, "Are. You. Hurt?"

"I...hrgkkth, told you." Scott hacked, "Just...gimme a minute."

But Stiles eyes are slowly adjusting to the half-light, and in growing horror he zeros in on the spreading dark patch on Scott's right hip. "Scott lift your shirt." he says numbly.

"Wha-? No, leave off I'm fine!"

"If you're fine then show me. Did it happen when you fell?"

"Stiles for gods sake-"

"Scott show me!" his voice breaks and it might as well be his heart for the wretched look that is on his best friends' face. He lunges forward, dodging Scott's pathetic attempts at beating him back, and drags Scott's shirt up to reveal the crescent of bloody bite-marks that now decorate the tanned skin of his pelvis.

Fuck. "Fuck." Shit. "Fucking _shit_ Scott." Stiles is crying, tears already spilling over his cheeks. "Oh god."

"Stiles!" Scott says desperately, "I didn't- I don't... What do I do? Oh god what the fuck do I do?"

Stiles couldn't. "I can't-" Scott couldn't be, "This can't be happening-" this had to be a nightmare, "This isn't really happening."

"Stiles tell me! What do I do? You have to help me! Stiles!"

"Nothing." Stiles whispers, recites, "Once bitten by an infected there is nothing that can be done to prevent the curse from spreading."

"There has to be something!"

"The world's scientists searched futilely for a cure, for as long as there were still labs to work in, they struggled. But it was no use, once the virus is passed the victim _will_ become one of them."

"I don't feel any different Stiles! I'm still me! Look at me, _I'm still human_."

"The change is different every time. Some come upon it within minutes, some incubation periods last hours. But let there be no doubt, the change will come."

"Stop fucking with me Stiles, this isn't a classroom don't quote the damn textbook at me! Stiles you're my best friend-"

"They wear the faces of loved ones, but your friends and family are gone. There are only monsters in false skin."

"No it's not true! I'm not a monster I'm Scott! Please." he falls to the ground, sobbing raggedly, "You have to help me."

"The kindest thing," Stiles says thickly around the snot and tears congealing on his face, "Is to end it quickly, before the memories of your love is tarnished." he raises the pistol, hands shaking so badly that he nearly drops it. "One shot to the head and you can purge the scourge." he clicks the safety off, "Your sacred duty as survivors."

The room is silent except for Scott's heaving sobs, and the distant sounds of battle. Stiles' finger shakes against the trigger, muscles twitching reluctantly, unwilling to perform the motion he’s done a thousand times before. _Doing him a favour,_ he tries to tell himself, _“Soon he won’t even be Scott anymore. Better dead than changed._ But he can’t, he _can’t._

“Oh mother _fucker_ ” He sobs, hands falling limp at his sides.

“Stiles?”

“I’m sorry.” He moans, “I’m sorry, I can’t help you. I’m the shittiest friend ever. I just can’t do it.”

“Maybe…I don’t feel like a rotter Stiles, maybe if I just go back home, go see the medics…maybe I’m _not infected_. Stiles maybe-“

“ _Run._ ” Stiles hisses, “Run and I’ll tell them…I’ll say that I burned you.” His hand flits to the matches and flask of gasoline in his utility belt.

Scott’s eyes gleam amber in the dark for a split second before he turns and sprints away, deeper into the basement. Stiles is left staring at the ground. “ _Fuck_.” He whispers to himself. “ _Fucking fuck_.”


End file.
